Broken Angels by Richard Montanari Page A

slightly soft focus, provocatively posed, lips parted. Jessica again thought the young woman was very pretty. Perhaps not model-gorgeous, but striking.
“Can we borrow this photograph?” Jessica asked. “We will return it.”
“No need to return,” Natalya said.
Jessica made a mental note to return the picture anyway. She knew from personal experience that as time passed the tectonic plates of grief, however thin, tended to shift.
Natalya stood, reached into a desk drawer. “As I said, Kristina was moving into a new place. Here is the extra key to her new apartment. Maybe this will help.”
There was a white tag attached to the key. Jessica glanced at it. It bore an address on North Lawrence.
Byrne took out his card case. “If you think of anything else that might help us, please give me a call.” He handed a card to Natalya.
Natalya took the card, then handed Byrne a card of her own. It seemed to come from nowhere, as if she already had it palmed and ready to produce. As it turned out, “palmed” was probably the right word. Jessica glanced at the card. It read: Madame Natalya—Cartomancy, Fortune-Telling, Tarot.
“I think you have a great deal of sadness within you,” she said to Byrne. “A great many unresolved issues.”
Jessica glanced at Byrne. He looked a little rattled, a rare state for him. She sensed her partner wanted to continue the interview alone.
“I’ll get the car,” Jessica said.
    they stood in the too-warm front room, silent for a few moments. Byrne glanced inside a small space off the parlor—round mahogany table, two chairs, a credenza, tapestries on the walls. There were candles burning in all four corners. He looked back at Natalya. She was studying him.
    “Have you ever had a reading?” Natalya asked.
“A reading?”
“A palm reading.”
“I’m not exactly sure what that is.”
“The art is called chiromancy,” she said. “It is an ancient practice in
    which the lines and markings of your hand are studied.”
“Uh, no,” Byrne said. “Never.”
Natalya reached out, took his hand in hers. Immediately Byrne felt a
    slight electrical charge. Not necessarily a sexual charge, although he could not deny that was a component.
She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. “You have a sense,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Sometimes you know things you should not know. Things that are not seen by others. Things that turn out to be true.”
Byrne wanted to take his hand back and run out of there as fast as he could, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to move. “Sometimes.”
“You were born with a veil?”
“A veil? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.”
“You came very close to dying?”
Byrne was a little spooked by this, but he didn’t let on. “Yes.”
“Twice.”
“Yes.”
Natalya let go of his hand, looked deep into his eyes. Somehow, in the past few minutes, her eyes seemed to have changed from a soft gray to a glossy black.
“The white flower,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“The white flower, Detective Byrne,” she repeated. “Take the shot.”
Now he really was spooked.
Byrne put his notebook away, buttoned his coat. He thought about shaking hands with Natalya Jakos, but decided against it. “Once again, we’re very sorry for your loss,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Natalya opened the door. An icy blast of air greeted Byrne. Walking down the steps, he felt physically drained.
Take the shot, he thought . What the hell was that about?
When Byrne reached the car he glanced back at the house. The front door was closed, but every window now had a glowing candle in it.
Had the candles been there when they arrived?

9
    Kristina Jakos’s new apartment was not an apartment at all, but rather a two-bedroom brick townhome on North Lawrence. As Jessica and Byrne approached, one thing was clear. No young woman who worked as a receptionist could afford the rent, or even half the rent if she was sharing. These were pricey digs.
    They knocked, rang